


The Slow Path

by little-smartass (Linxcat)



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Alcoholism, IWTV but with no vampires, M/M, and they're doing a looooot better than their canon counterparts, but they're from the 1700s so they don't really know shit, domestic fluff with some personal angst, look Louis and Lestat aren't perfect but they're trying really hard, period typical homophobia and internalised homophobia, thoughts and discussions on the symptoms of depression and bi-polar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 02:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19898173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linxcat/pseuds/little-smartass
Summary: As Louis turns, Valois’ hand catches him by the elbow and holds him fast. Something jolts through Louis at the contact and he tells himself it's shock at the impropriety, “Will you be coming to the performance tomorrow, Monsieur Louis…?”“Louis de Pointe du Lac,” Louis says. His whole life he's prided himself on not being the kind of man who makes foolish snap decisions, but he looks at Lestat de Valois, feels the warmth of his hand on his arm, and says, “I will.”-Interview With The Vampire, but without the vampires. Just Louis and Lestat walking the slow path.





	The Slow Path

**Author's Note:**

> essentially this was a thought experiment on how much of L & L's personalities and relationship issues are inherent to them vs how much are the consequence of being vampires with the associated trauma that got waaaay out of hand and sort of spawned its own universe? big thanks to laughingmistress and vraik for their feedback along the way!

The first time their eyes meet across the theatre, Louis catches his breath.

The young blond actor playing Macbeth scans his gaze across the audience and for a moment, he seems to pause on Louis. His eyes are grey and bright with stage tears, and they draw Louis in, like an invisible force is urging him to climb out of his seat and over the chairs in front, drag himself onto the stage, just for the chance to-

The man's gaze moves on. Louis’ heart hammers and his stomach turns over and his head feels light, but it's not an unpleasant sensation. He doesn't realise that he's squeezing Marie’s hand on the armrest until she squeezes back, shooting him a look of teasing sisterly amusement as if she finds it sweet that he is so affected by Macbeth’s plight.

This is their second time seeing the performance; they’d also attended the showing the night before, and although Louis had agreed to go primarily to chaperone his sister, he does enjoy Shakespeare a great deal, so it’s a pleasant duty. There’s also the fact that these players have come all the way from Paris - a distant, exciting land, full of the kind of glittering mystique offered to a place one just barely remembers from childhood. 

The blond actor had spellbound him that night too.

Louis personally thinks he's rather too young to have the part of an experienced general, with his boyish face and mane of bouncing curls, however he cannot deny that the man has the right energy for it. When he speaks, somehow Louis can believe utterly that the young Macbeth has wet his sword on a thousand foes, rode fiercely into battle for his king. _Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow_. When this Macbeth dies, Louis finds himself more moved than he'd expected.

Marie wants to stay afterwards to speak with a friend, so Louis follows her out into the theatre lobby and steels himself to brave the horrors of polite smalltalk. The space is full with people, all hopeful for the opportunity to meet the actors when they emerge from backstage, faces scrubbed, to be plied with wine and congratulations. Marie makes a high-pitched sound of excitement when she spots her friend and Louis loses her in the crowd as she squirms through the packed bodies. He has only a second to fear over it before a familiar voice says behind him, “Well, what did you think, monsieur?” and to his later shame, all thoughts of Marie vanish from his mind.

It's Macbeth. It says on the playbill his name is _Lestat de Valois_. His blond curls are loose and wild around his face, glowing like a halo in the lamplight, and there's still a trace of dark paint under his eyes and rouge on his cheeks - it ought to make him look like a carnival fool, and yet combined with his sharp jaw and broad, toothy smile, he's so striking that Louis is dumbstruck for a moment.

“I disagreed with your interpretation of the Act 5 soliloquy,” Louis blurts, and it is absolutely the wrong thing to say but it is, at least, something to say. Valois looks genuinely taken aback. Obviously he had been expecting a compliment. It seems that he cannot quite decide what to do with his expression; whether to be offended or amused.

Louis fumbles to correct himself, mortified at his own rudeness, “I greatly enjoyed the performance, of course, monsieur. You were fantastic, this is actually the second time my sister and I have come to see-”

Louis’ clear embarrassment seems to make up the man's mind, as a grin spreads across his face, “Tell me what I did wrong, then,” he says, like he's taken it as a challenge. He takes a step closer. He smells of sweat and greasepaint, and Louis is surprised that he doesn't find it unattractive.

It's terribly difficult to think clearly, all of a sudden.

“Louis!” comes Marie’s call from across the room, and Louis’ brain stirs itself from its stupor; it is growing late, and maman will be expecting Marie back.

“My sister,” Louis says, apologetically. He should go and find her but something roots him to the spot, “Will you - your troupe - be in New Orleans long?”

Valois smiles, “We have plans to linger for a month yet.”

“Then perhaps we will have the opportunity to continue our conversation in the future,” Louis inclines his head politely and steps back, “Bonsoir, Monsieur Valois.”

As Louis turns, Valois’ hand catches him by the elbow and holds him fast. Something jolts through Louis at the contact and he tells himself it's shock at the impropriety, “Will you be coming to the performance tomorrow, Monsieur Louis…?”

“Louis de Pointe du Lac,” Louis says. His whole life he's prided himself on not being the kind of man who makes foolish snap decisions, but he looks at Lestat de Valois, feels the warmth of his hand on his arm, and says, “I will.”

-

They do have the opportunity to continue their conversation the following night; Louis returns without Marie this time, and once Lestat - and he _will_ be referred to as Lestat, he insists, dispensing with formalities at once - scrubs his face and wrestles himself away from his admirers, they talk for several hours in the courtyard of a tavern. 

Lestat has a lot to say about Macbeth, and a lot to say about Shakespeare, and all of it is loud and impassioned. He scoffs when Louis quotes scene and line numbers, and though he is intrigued when Louis posits the analyses of great academics who have written on the works of the bard, he waves off the implied criticisms with a laugh. Lestat is an actor who believes that the value of capturing the _spirit_ of a character vastly outweighs something as pedestrian as accuracy to text. He tells Louis he began in the _commedia dell'arte_ \- “we had none of these grand epics there, no scripts, only characters that we knew from the inside out, and every night was a new story!”

“Why did you leave, then?” Louis asks, emboldened by the wine and enthralled by the man in front of him, “Why did you leave Paris?”

Lestat falters for the first time in the conversation. For a second his boyish, smiling face is sad as he gazes down at the wine bottle in his hands. And then the bright energy returns, though when he grins it seems a little brittle, “Because the Comédie-Française promised me the world, mon cher, and what kind of fool says no to the world?”

-

They strike up a strange kind of friendship between them, one of smiles and small enjoyable arguments. Lestat is at turns delighted by and then utterly dismissive of Louis’ literary opinions, but he's always intrigued to hear them. After a few weeks a little of the stage magic has fallen away, but a part of Louis still feels like Lestat has him spellbound. He’s never met someone so easy with his affections, who’ll throw an arm around his shoulders or waist without hesitation, who’ll lean in so close when they talk, who sometimes looks at him out of the corner of his eye with such excitement, as if they're both in on some wonderful joke that no one else in the world is privy to. 

It’s a little odd, but Louis doesn’t mind; he’s not slipped so easily into a friendship since he was a boy, since before his father died and he became the man of the house. It's… nice.

Maman frets about what people will think about Louis being so often out in the taverns, so he invites Lestat back to the plantation formally for dinner. Maman does not entirely approve of acting as a profession, but even she cannot turn her nose up at Shakespeare, and besides, Lestat is charming, and Paul - noble, pious, sweet Paul who can do wrong in their mother's eyes - likes Lestat well enough, and that seems to be enough for her. 

He is, perhaps, a little _too_ charming with Marie. She gasps and fawns over him, enamoured by his pretty face and Parisian mystique, and he allows it all with a knowing smile and a wink at Louis.

“Valois is just a stage name,” he says, gesturing expansively with his wine glass, “My real name is Lioncourt, my family is from Auvergne.”

It gets the reaction he is undoubtedly hoping for; Lioncourt is an old name, from french nobility, a name any bourgeois new-money family so displaced from their french roots should be _honoured_ to associate with. Louis sees maman’s surprise, the way she re-evaluates, then looks between Lestat and Marie with an appraising eye. He grips his fork a little tighter. He's… not sure why.

He and Lestat argue that evening - not one of their bickering back-and-forths about literature, but something nastier - seemingly over nothing at all, and Louis cannot recall the last time he was so enraged, cannot remember ever having felt so _provoked_ , not by whatever foolishness had begun their fight, but by the man himself. Something about Lestat inflames him and he isn't sure he likes it.

They do not cross paths for a week, and with the troupe's month almost up, Louis knows his conscience will not lie easy if he does not make amends before Lestat leaves. However, his pride halts him each time he picks up a pen to write.

And then the rains come early, and the troupe announce their plans to stay and wait out the season, and one day Louis receives an envelope containing four tickets for Romeo and Juliet in the theatre's best box.

There's no letter, but Louis can see it for what it is.

-

Lestat acts. Louis manages the plantation. They drink and eat and talk together. Many nights they stroll along the docks or down the brightly lit streets, arm in arm, warmed enough by their conversation. When the rainy season passes and the Comédie-Française company move on, Lestat is part of a small group that stay behind.

“We've been touring for years, I felt it was time to have a little break, and the theatre manager has asked me to help with directing, so it's a step up, really,” Lestat smiles toothily at Louis as they wander down Rue Bourbon together, the scent of jasmine in the early evening air, “Besides, I rather think New Orleans has wormed its way into my heart.”

-

Paul tells Louis that he's heard the voice of God. That angels and saints have visited him in his sleeping and waking moments to show him the way. They must sell the plantation and use the money to leave New Orleans and go back to Europe as penniless missionaries.

Louis has never known Paul to lie. He has ever been a pious and gentle boy with a heart that bleeds for the world, and all that meet him recognise it and love him for it.

But Louis is the eldest son; with his father dead he is the patriarch of Pointe du Lac, he is responsible for the whole plantation, the family name, the upkeep and welfare of his mother and sister. What Paul proposes would not only ruin the Pointe du Lac reputation but also the happiness of the whole family.

“Please,” begs Paul, blue eyes glittering with religious fervour.

Louis thinks of his family. He thinks of maman, penniless in some backwater town in France. He thinks of Marie, marriage prospects dashed in mortification, growing old alone. He thinks of Paul, blue eyes glazed over, begging on a street corner not for pennies but for the ear of anyone who will listen to the words of his God.

Louis thinks of himself, forced to leave behind those long walks and long talks with Lestat.

Louis says no.

-

The weeks after Paul’s death are a blur. The only clear things that stand out are his mother’s accusing eyes, the bottle in his hand, and Lestat.

Maman blames him, and it is his fault, so he can’t hate her for that. She used up all of her tears weeping over the body when she found Paul, broken at the bottom of the stairs, and ripped him from Louis’ desperate final embrace, so as the days pass all that she has left is her cold anger. 

He drowns in it, and his own sorrow, but the worst part is Marie. She is not angry at him but heartbroken. He cannot bear to look at her. So he leaves the plantation house and moves to the city. 

So he drinks.

He’d never been especially prone to the vice before, never especially tempted to have more than a moderate share, so the flood of it in his system is alien and leaves him reeling, spinning, staggering, sick, and gagging for more because anything is better than remembering Paul's blue eyes open in his dead face. He wanders from tavern to tavern. He no longer cares about his family name. He has already ruined it. What else is there, now? He visits the dockside whores whenever he has legs that will hold him and coin in his pocket, not because he has no shame but because there can be no greater shame than what he has already caused to pass. There’s not much he can really do, as drunk as he is, though the warm lips on his skin eat away at the loneliness just a little, even if they stoke the fire of his self-loathing.

He gambles. He cheats. He rips open his shirt and dares the tavern rogues to kill him - he has not the courage to do it himself. Kill him and release him from this suffocating darkness, this unbearable heaviness. This terrible agony of the soul.

And then, Lestat. 

His hands, hauling Louis to his feet. His arm, tight around Louis’ shoulders, guiding him away from the taverns and to the dockside, to vomit, and then back to somewhere warm and quiet. His voice, chattering in his ear about nothing at all. 

It is easy, then, to do what he says. To lie down, no, on your side chéri, so you don’t choke. Here, change your shirt, you smell like a tavern gutter, and half the buttons are missing, what on earth did you get up to? Take off your boots and let me brush your lovely hair out, it’s quite matted. God above, when was the last time you washed? Eat this, it'll soak up the wine.

But Lestat leaves at some point the next day for his rehearsals and when Louis wakes up a hazy kind of sobriety returns to him, along with the memories, so he drinks everything he can find in Lestat’s impeccably decorated little flat. He doesn't remember if Lestat is angry about that, but he does start to yell when Louis vomits on the chaise-lounge.

-

And then, there is no more wine, or whiskey, or anything at all to dampen the memories. He's sober and drowning again, not in sorrow this time, just in a terrible all-consuming kind of blankness. He spends days at a time lying on Lestat’s scrubbed chaise-lounge, staring at the ceiling. He wants to get up and eat and wash and change his clothes, read a book maybe, perhaps go for a walk, he wants to do something, _anything_ , but he finds himself completely unable to move. Useless, useless. Like his mind is disconnected from his body. It doesn't matter how much he wants, he won't, he _can't_. And then it's just easier to give in and not want at all.

One day, he finds a flimsy book shoved into his hands. He blinks at it. The words swim into focus on the page. It's a script.

“Help me learn my lines,” Lestat snaps from somewhere nearby, “I ought to charge you some kind of rent.”

Louis blinks at the paper. He opens his mouth and realises how dry it is. He needs a drink.

“Read the lines, Louis.”

Louis swallows, “‘'Who's there?’'” He reads. His voice sounds too loud in his ears, foreign and croaking from disuse. 

“No, no,” Lestat stomps into view and flips pages in the script, “I'm to play Hamlet, find the page with _Hamlet's_ first lines, it's the scene with the king and queen.”

Louis isn't even looking at the page. He can't help but stare at Lestat, with his shiny blond curls pulled back in a low tail, his high cheekbones, his expressive grey eyes. His lips, so very red. He has enough money to dress a little finer now, and Louis raises a hand to drag his fingers down the golden embroidery of Lestat's blue waistcoat, and then up again, to reverently stroke the delicate white lace at his neck.

Lestat stops blindly turning pages to give Louis a long look that Louis can't quite interpret. His brain feels like it's encased in cotton. 

“Louis,” says Lestat with a sigh, “Let's go for a walk.”

Lestat manhandles him to his feet and to his surprise, Louis’ legs obey him. They don't talk as they meander down the street. Louis isn't sure how long he was lying on that chaise lounge for but it takes a lot of concentration to stay upright. Lestat's arm is nice around his waist, though. When they get back Louis is exhausted and sleeps through the night soundly without a single bad dream.

Lestat gives him the play every day from then on, with the command to read. Some days he can manage it - flick through to Hamlet's lines and keep up a steady scripted conversation. Lestat is always better at remembering his side after Louis has read it all through once to him. There are days where out of the blue things are worse again, his body a deadweight and his mind screaming in frustration, and having the better days interspersed only makes them more agonising.

But now the alcohol’s gone, there _are_ better days. Some days the fog recedes from his mind completely and he's quiet and sad, but at least his body obeys him and he can wash and dress himself. He reads a lot, anything he can find in Lestat’s apartment; his ‘book’ collection is almost entirely old scripts, and an old family bible with Lestat's name printed in the front in careful childish handwriting, but Louis pours over it all. One day Louis even writes to his mother. He's not sure if she'd care that he's still alive, but it's been a month and she doesn't have the numbers to run the plantation herself, so he writes to instruct that all books and business correspondence - along with his affects - be sent to him in New Orleans. That is, at least, something he can do that won't disgrace them all.

-

“Up! Get dressed!” Lestat commands as he strides into the apartment one afternoon, “Whatever you've got that's best; it's the opening night of Hamlet this evening and it's past time you went out.”

Louis tries to protest but it's impossible to stop Lestat when he has hold of an idea, so in short order he finds himself washed and dressed and freshly shaved and blinking in the yellow gaslight of the theatre's best box. It's an onslaught to his senses after so long inside the flat. He wants to curl up under his seat with his arms over his head.

“Stay,” Lestat says as he deposits him, as if addressing a dog, then sweeps off. Louis is just starting to adjust to the noise of the arriving crowd and the blaze of the chandelier when Lestat suddenly reappears - with Marie on his arm.

“See, chérie?” Lestat says, gesturing to Louis. Marie gapes for a moment, then her face crumples and she flings herself into Louis' arms, weeping hysterically.

Louis holds her tightly, hiding his face in her dark hair. He feels his heart might burst, he had no idea he could feel so heartbroken and so overjoyed at the same time.

“They said you were a drunkard,” Marie hiccups as she pulls back to sit beside him, “That you were lost at the gambling tables, drinking yourself to death.”

“Vicious rumour, looking to tarnish your family’s good name,” Lestat says fiercely before Louis can so much as open his mouth, “Does he look like a drunkard to you?”

Marie peers into Louis’ eyes, still not quite reassured, “But where have you been?”

Once again, Lestat jumps in, “He's been living with me. He did not wish to burden you and your maman with his grief, that is all. He just shut himself away for a little bit, but he's feeling much better now.”

Louis squeezes Marie's hands and smiles for the first time in a very long while. It's wobbly, but it's a start.

“I'm alright, Mimi,” he says gently.

When they walk back to Lestat’s apartment after the performance, Louis tired but more at ease than he has been since Paul died, and Lestat so full up with praise that it's a wonder his feet still touch the ground, Louis gives his friend a long look.

“Did you plan that?” he asks, “With Marie, I mean?”

Lestat scoffs, “Not at all, I merely noticed the young mademoiselle in the theatre lobby and thought she might prefer a better seat.”

His eyes are sparkling, though, and he can't swallow a smile. Despite his acting prowess he's never been good at keeping a pokerface. 

“Nevertheless,” Louis says, “It was still a kind thing to do. Thank you.”

Lestat hums in acknowledgement. Nothing more needs to be said.

The night air between them is thick as they walk, not just with the summer heat and the scent of jasmine, but with something else, something that has been lurking there a while. Despite his tiredness, Louis feels jittery. Perhaps after so long being suffocated by the oppressive weight of his own grief, he is drunk on this sudden infusion of happiness. It makes him feel bold.

Louis looks up at the stars and sucks in a fortifying breath, “Lestat,” he says quietly, “Why did you not stay for the after party? They all wanted you there, and I'm sure you would have enjoyed it.”

I'm sure they would have spent the whole evening stroking your ego, and probably other parts of you, if you wanted, is what Louis doesn't say. The idea that Lestat forfeited a night of adoration to… what, walk quietly back to his flat together? It's bizarre. It's terribly out of character.

It gives Louis hope for something he didn't even realise he wanted until that second, when it begins to form in his mind. He’s afraid that if he focuses on it and tries to visualise it into being, it’ll slip through his fingers like sand, so he skirts around it, feeling out the shape of it. Wet red lips. Soft yellow curls. Warm pale skin. His hands feel clammy. 

Lestat says nothing for several moments. Louis can't look at him, he keeps his gaze up and focuses on the moon, the trees, the streetlamps instead. He is acutely aware that what Lestat says next could change everything - or nothing at all. It's excruciating. His heart pounds.

Finally, Lestat laughs. 

“You really don't know?” 

Lestat stops walking, and Louis just has to look at him then. Lestat is smiling, his big boyish grin; it's hard for Louis to believe that there is a six year difference between them because Lestat’s face has an ageless quality about it, Louis just can't imagine it ever growing wrinkled and old, losing its life and beauty. His cheeks are chafed pink from being scrubbed and as always he's not quite managed to remove all the dark paint from around his eyes, which are bright with his usual mischief. In the dim light the grey looks almost violet. He smells of greasepaint and sweat and the traces of an oddly familiar cologne - that Louis realises is actually his own, pilfered at some point, and, hold on, how long has Lestat been wearing that?

Louis realises Lestat is waiting for some kind of response. He opens his mouth, manages to say, “I-” before Lestat leans quickly in, places his warm palm on Louis' cheek, and presses their lips together.

Louis freezes. Lestat pulls back, resting his forehead against Louis’, stroking his fingertips lightly over Louis’ jaw, and whispers, “For once in your life, Louis, don't overthink this.”

Louis knows that if he lives a thousand years to the very end of the earth, he will never forget this exact moment; the sound of the crickets, the smell of the jasmine, the soft pressure of Lestat’s hand on his face, and the taste of his lips as Louis kisses him.

-

Later, when they lie tangled up in bed together, flushed, sweaty, and sated, Lestat sleepily humming some refrain that was played during the theatre intermission and Louis carefully working the knots out of Lestat’s golden curls with his fingers, the guilt sets in.

“You're thinking again,” Lestat grumbles, “I can practically _hear_ it. Go on, what is it?”

Louis is reluctant to voice the thought his mind is trying to avoid with this happiness so fresh and tender between them, with Lestat’s warm cheek pressed against his shoulder and his hand tracing absently up and down Louis’ back.

“Is it… is this…”

Lestat lifts his head and raises an eyebrow, “A sin?”

“Well,” says Louis, reddening, “Yes.”

“There’s more to life than Catholicism, Louis,” Lestat says, and when Louis frowns he sighs, “Did it feel like a sin?”

Yes, Louis wants to say. _Yes_ , how can anything this wonderful, this self-indulgent, anything that makes me so terribly, terrifyingly happy possibly be anything _other_ than a sin?

“I suppose not,” Louis lies. 

-

The bad days don't magically stop, just because his score of happiness has increased. 

But it is easier to deal with them when Lestat comes home from the theatre with kisses and soft touches, and when the good days are so very good, the bad days pass a little faster.

-

Although Louis feels like the worst of the darkness is behind him, life cannot carry on as if nothing at all happened. Maman’s grief has still calcified her heart against him, rumours still persist that it was by his hand that Paul met his end, and all of Lestat’s well-meaning bluster cannot cover up the weeks of drunken roaming witnessed by too many people of good standing to entirely salvage the family’s reputation. Nobody outright snubs them, but there is _talk_. Marie, bless her soul, is his steadfast defender and refuses to accept a bad word she hears. Maman says nothing.

Their finances also suffer. After a month of Louis pouring over the books, shifting numbers from column to column, furiously trying to balance their losses, he decides the best he can do now is sell off the plantation. He doesn’t have the energy or the heart to run it with the scrutiny it requires, and it’s been a struggle to wring a profit out of indigo for years anyway. Maman puts up a token fight for the sake of the house, but her health is failing and none of them have a love for the place any more, not with Paul’s absence looming large over it like spanish moss, so it’s not awfully difficult for Marie to persuade her to move to a suitably fashionable quarter of New Orleans. The change will lose them a little social standing, though not enough to be shameful, and will ultimately leave them considerably more financially stable. 

The Frenieres are the ones to purchase the plantation; they own a fair plot of sugar land not far up the river and are doing well in the refinement business. The young man of the family, Michel, had taken over his household after the untimely death of his father, and much like Louis himself worked hard to protect his sisters and mother. Louis is pleased to hand it over to a smart, trustworthy man, who is known to treat his slaves well and has a shrewd eye for turning a profit. 

“Leaving us for the bright lights of the city, then?” Freniere says conversationally as Louis gives him a tour of the gardens. 

Louis is distracted as they pass the oratory, pausing to run his fingers over the stone. It still pains him to think of Paul, but the sorrow is somehow more muted now, as if the ghost of his brother has moved to linger in the next room, rather than the constant shadow he’d once been. He shakes the thought off and turns back to Michel with a polite smile.

“For business, I’m afraid, not pleasure,” he explains, “I have invested in the real estate market and found that it is much more to my taste than running a plantation,” he tips Freniere a secretive little smile like he’s being conspiratorial about it, “Fewer people to be responsible for. No more early mornings. Much less riding.”

The faux-joke works, and Freniere grins back. For some reason people seem to enjoy these little admissions of sloth; it’s easy to convince everyone he’s leaving out of a vague sense of laziness, and gloss over the lingering shame. His pride rankles at it somewhat, but it’s a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things. 

“You wouldn’t consider taking one of my sisters with you? They’re lovely girls and they tell me so often how much they enjoy the city,” Freniere trails off when Louis doesn’t immediately respond and adds, leadingly, “Babette is so smart it’s a pity she wasn’t born a man. She’d make any businessman an excellent wife.”

Louis fights to stop the smile souring on his face, searching for a way to stay in that friendly, man-to-man space where Michel would take all his white lies as ‘just between us’ confessions, “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer,” he says, eventually, “But I’m afraid my business affairs leave me with a somewhat... restricted social life, and it just wouldn’t be fair to give any woman so little of the attention she deserves. Especially a woman so fine as your sister.”

It's not a particularly good excuse, and Louis can tell just how unconvincing he's been by the way Freniere's eyebrows draw together. The best he can hope for is that the man is too polite to directly question it. 

Freniere is quiet for a moment, as if considering the matter, and Louis holds his breath, trying to focus on the grounds ahead of them. 

“So it is true you prefer the company of... others, then,” says Freniere finally, and something in his voice makes Louis freeze inside. He turns his head slowly towards the man, who is now smiling mildly at him. The smile has no warmth behind it. It's actually almost menacing. 

“Excuse me?”

Freniere flaps a hand dismissively, “It was just something I heard. Now, what is this building over here-?”

Louis has been financially negotiating for the family since he was sixteen, and has built up a reputation within the plantation community for being able to squeeze a good deal out of almost any situation - but the conversation leaves him rattled enough that Michel pushes his advantage in their negotiations, and Louis cedes ground he would never usually allow. He realises, distantly, that this is probably blackmail.

When he returns to New Orleans he feels shaken enough to pour himself a glass of wine - the first to pass his lips since those dark, desolate weeks. Lestat is out, at a late-night performance, and the apartment feels dark and empty without him. Louis drinks the whole bottle as he curls up on the chaise-lounge and broods. 

There are… suspicions. _Public_ suspicions. 

He knows the plantation families are terrible for gossip, but he’d hoped, perhaps foolishly, that moving to the city would afford him a little more discretion. No such luck. For his sister and mother’s sake, he ought to assuage the rumours; he ought to leave this… whatever this is with Lestat, and find a good woman to marry. Perhaps reconsider this Mademoiselle Babette.

He could be satisfied with a smart wife and a nice house and a good family, couldn’t he? Even if, now he’s felt the touch of a man’s hands, he can’t imagine his heart ever quickening over a woman again. 

A wave of despair swells over his soul. 

He staggers to his feet, half drunk, intent on another bottle of wine, when he hears Lestat return. He’s singing something loud and cheerful, which means the performance went well and there’s money coming in soon. Louis is torn between simultaneous urges to flee to the bedroom and hide, and throw himself into Lestat’s arms for comfort. His brain is too muddled to make a decision fast enough and so he is left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room when Lestat opens the door. 

“Ah!” Lestat exclaims, delighted, “Mon choupinou! Everything went so wonderfully tonight, come here and give me a kiss!”

Louis allows himself to be dragged in by his collar and thoroughly kissed, though he does grumble, “Don’t call me that.”

Lestat pulls back abruptly and frowns at him, “You taste like… Louis, are you _drunk?_ ”

Unexpectedly, Louis finds himself shaking. He opens his mouth, knowing that he ought to say that he’s leaving, that they have to end this now, but nothing comes out. Lestat takes him by the shoulders and leads him to bed, sitting him down and stroking his hair and gently asking him what the matter is. Lestat’s ministrations are so careful and affectionate that Louis almost weeps at the prospect of losing them, and instead of standing firm as he’d intended do, he ends up telling Lestat everything.

“Oh, Louis, chéri, you’ve built this up into something so big when it’s really nothing at all. Don’t you know young Freniere is a cad?”

Louis shakes his head fervently, then stops when the room wobbles around him, “No, no, he-”

“He was in a duel just last month with a spanish creole - the man caught him cheating - and Freniere killed him,” Lestat explains, “He's killed others too, I'm sure, he's quite a one for duelling.”

Louis blinks, the wine muddling him. Lestat seems so certain, he wants to just go along with him, and yet concern persists in his mind.

“But I spoke to the other plantation families and they… no one spoke badly of him? How can…”

“Oh of course, out by the river no one would. Out there all know him to be a good and fair master, a noble provider for his unfortunate sisters, and I have no doubt he will run Pointe du Lac to a tidy profit. However, if you had his acquaintance from the _city…_ ”

Louis runs a hand down his face, “What… what are you saying?”

“I'm saying that he is known for making inflammatory statements, how do you think he gets in enough quarrels to be involved with so many duels?” Lestat pushes Louis’ hair back from his face and presses a kiss to his forehead, “Relax, mon coeur. Nothing will come of this.”

Louis sighs.The wine feels like a sickening weight in his stomach; the despair and dizziness brought on by the drink have passed and now he is just tired. He wants to forget the entire matter and haul Lestat up into his arms, curl up together under the covers. He’d been a fool to believe that he could just walk away from their strange little arrangement. He can’t leave this behind now, even if he were not a selfish coward, even if he _wanted_ to.

And yet… and yet...

“He said there were rumours,” Louis mumbles stubbornly. Lestat tries to lower him down to the bed and does his best to resist, fighting to keep his eyes open.

“Then,” Lestat kisses his forehead again, “like a veritable hound dog,” his cheeks, “I will hunt these rumour-mongers down,” his nose, “and see that they _desist_ ,” and finally his lips.

Louis sighs again as the rest of the fight leaves him. “But how?” he asks.

Lestat tugs off his boots, strips off his waistcoat, then pulls the covers up and over him. Inside the warm cocoon of the bed he drifts into sleep, and he hears Lestat's voice.

“Oh, I'm sure I'll think of something.”

-

The next time Louis goes out to the plantation - to sign off the final papers - he is met by a red-eyed but resolute Mademoiselle Babette Freniere. 

Monsieur Freniere was killed in a duel. 

Despite his morbid curiosity, it seems impolite for Louis to ask for details. He expresses his condolences, and after the pleasant surprise of finding her to be as bright and sensible as her brother had said, he is pleased to hand over the business to her capable hands, offering her the invitation to write to him for advice should she ever she need it. 

When Freniere's obituary is in the morning paper, Louis reads it out as he lies in bed. 

“Well,” says Lestat mildly, suddenly intent on buttoning his waistcoat, “That's that, I suppose.”

-

“You need a desk,” Lestat remarks thoughtfully when he finds Louis awkwardly balancing papers on the arm of the chaise-lounge.

“A small table would do me just as well,” Louis insists, but Lestat is pacing like he often does when he has an idea to work out.

“No, you need a study to work in, and to store all your books, and there simply isn't the room here. There's a flat going on Rue Royale above the tailor's - it has a fine little balcony and the use of a lovely courtyard, and my extra takings from Hamlet would cover the cost of some new furniture,” Lestat pauses, face lit up in excitement as he imagines the new space, “Perhaps we would have room for a pianoforte,” he murmurs, thoughtfully.

“Can you play the pianoforte?” Louis asks, genuinely curious.

Lestat waves a hand dismissively, “No, but I have always had a good ear for music, and I should like to learn.”

They move in the next week, and Lestat proves an excellent if somewhat demanding interior decorator. Louis has his study, with a big oak desk and fireplace and many bookcases, and his own bedroom for propriety’s sake, but Lestat’s room has the largest bed and it's where they spend most of their nights.

“What do you think about birds, chéri?” Lestat asks, staring up at the canopy of the four-poster as if it contains the secrets of their future.

“Hmm?” Lestat’s smooth chest is an excellent pillow and, sprawled over his lover's warm body, Louis is drifting pleasantly into sleep.

“Birds - canaries or mockingbirds, perhaps - can't you imagine them singing along sweetly as I play the pianoforte in the parlour?”

“You can't play the pianoforte,” Louis mumbles.

Lestat stares defiantly up at the canopy, “Not _yet_.”

-

Louis isn't the only one who has bad days; it takes several months of living together for him to notice that Lestat's mercurial moods have a sort of cycle to them. Most days he is his usual bombastic self - and then suddenly a surge of energy, and he is louder and faster and everything must be done absolutely to perfection and he can go days without regular sleep or food, pacing back and forth, practising his lines, furiously pounding out his pianoforte scales until a mistake is unthinkable - and then it is as if he runs out of steam and sputters to a halt, abruptly full of anguish and despair.

“There's something terrible inside of me, Louis,” Lestat whispers, their foreheads pressed together and hands clasped between them, “I can feel it. I'm a monster. When I die I will be lost in the blackness alone.”

Louis kisses him gently, then pulls Lestat in so his head is tucked under his chin, “If you are a monster, then I am one too, and we will enter the blackness together.”

-

A script thumps onto the desk in front of Louis, covering the balance book he'd been working on.

“Help me learn my lines,” Lestat says, flopping into the armchair he'd installed in Louis’ study opposite the desk, specifically for the purpose of distracting him, hooking one long leg over the arm.

“Learn them yourself,” Louis grumbles, tossing the script back across the room into Lestat’s lap, “I'm busy making sure your spending doesn't bankrupt us.”

Lestat is taken aback, scowling, “Louis, I need to learn these for the end of the week - I _need_ you to read them to me, you know I can never remember them otherwise.”

Lestat's entitled tone is grating on Louis’ nerves. His fingers tighten on his pen. “Then you'll have to read them yourself,” he snaps, raising his eyes from his work to glare coolly across the room, “If you even can.”

The suspicion has been growing in Louis for a while, and he knows from the way Lestat’s face immediately burns and the way he recoils, as if struck by a physical blow, that it's the truth. 

Lestat cannot read. 

It's impressive, honestly, that he's managed to keep up the little charade for so long. Louis wonders whether any of his theatre friends know, or if they, like Louis, had simply assumed that making others read for him was just part of his demanding personality. A part of his mind tells him he should feel bad for stripping Lestat bare like this, but he doesn't. Not yet. The long-grown irritation has roots too deep to be pulled just yet. He watches coldly as humiliation turns to rage on Lestat's expressive face.

“It was alright for you, sleeping in your little bassinet in your big mansion on the bayou! I grew up on the mountain slopes of Auvergne! We had our drafty old castle but nothing else - no money, no means! No firewood except for what I went out to cut! No food except for what I killed with my own hands! You had your tutors and lessons and I wrestled with wolves and hunted boar! There was no _time_ to learn my letters, I needed to _survive!_ ”

Lestat stands there, fists curled, panting from the force of his self-justifying tirade. Louis raises an eyebrow.

“You told me that your family were nobility and you had servants and the townsfolk brought you tribute.”

“Yes, well…!” Lestat’s cheeks flame again, “There were good years and bad years, alright! Mon dieu!”

“If you want me to read for you,” Louis calls after him as Lestat storms off, “You can damn well ask politely.”

-

Three days of sleeping in separate rooms and taking separate meals later, just when Louis can't bear it anymore, Lestat brings one of his not-quite-apologies in the form of a letter.

He strides into Louis’ bedroom one night, holding it out in front of him like an olive branch, “I've received a letter from Paris. I recognise the names - it's from my old theatre troupe, Renaud’s,” Lestat grits his teeth, determinedly looking Louis in the eye, “Would you read it to me, please?”

It's easy to be kind in that moment. Louis holds out a hand, and when Lestat goes to pass him the paper, Louis takes hold of his wrist and tugs him down onto the bed beside him. Lestat, sensing reconciliation, curls up against Louis’ side like a cat with a small sigh of contentment.

“Alright,” says Louis, elbowing Lestat so he opens his eyes, “You said you recognised their names, what other words do you know?”

Lestat has a good visual memory; he knows how to recognise the shapes of names, from looking at scripts, but he also is able to pick out some common words, a few numbers, and has enough of a basic knowledge of the alphabet that with coaxing - and a lot of praise to sooth his ego - he can carefully spell out new words. Louis makes Lestat figure out the first paragraph, then when Lestat gets grumpy and impatient, reads the rest himself.

The letter is about someone called Nicki. It's not good news.

Louis watches Lestat’s face, normally so expressive, go blank with shock. Louis rubs his hand gently up and down Lestat’s back.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs, “How did you know him?”

Lestat stares vacantly into the distance. When he speaks, his voice is monotone, “He grew up in Auvergne too, we snuck away together to Paris, in the middle of the night. He was… we were…”

Louis understands enough. He nods, and then sets the letter aside, and gently strips Lestat down to his undershirt, and pulls the covers over them both. It's smaller than Lestat’s luxurious four-poster, so they're pressed up close together, nose to nose, but he feels like that's exactly what Lestat needs right now.

“I loved him,” Lestat mumbles into the pillow, “I loved him so much but I needed to leave Paris and he… he was so angry at everything, all the time, so angry and sad, and I never really understood why. When I told him I needed to leave he said terrible things to me and I knew he was doing it on purpose, to drive me away. I think that maybe… maybe he _liked_ being sad, so he told me to leave if I really wanted to… and I did,” Lestat bites down on his thumb and blinks rapidly, as if he can hold back tears by pure force of will, “Maybe if I'd stayed, he… but I _had_ to leave.”

“Why did you have to leave?” Louis asks.

Lestat's eyes focus on Louis, as if he's only just realising he's there. Louis has never thought of Lestat as being vulnerable before - he's tall and brash and loud and has a big indomitable personality - but seeing him there, grey eyes wide, hair spilling out around his head on the pillow, curled up in a ball under the covers, he looks very young and very sad. 

“My mother could read - she would spend days tucked up in her little library with her books and desk and all her letters from Italy, like she wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Like she wanted to escape,” Lestat trails off. Louis blinks, unsure of this relevance, “Well, we _all_ did!” Lestat snarls suddenly, “She loved me but she never bothered to teach me how to escape with her! And in the end, the sickness ate her from the inside out, and nothing in her precious books could save her. That is why I left Paris; at the end she came to visit me there, instead of going to her family in Italy, and she died, and I left. I couldn't stay.”

-

Plague comes to New Orleans like a flood, and whole areas of the city are segregated to stop it spreading. Louis and Lestat take their evening walks with careful detours.

It is on one such late perambulation that they catch the child's cry.

“Do you hear that?” Lestat asks, stopping Louis with a palm flat against his chest as he tilts his head towards the thin, reedy noise.

Louis winces, “It's coming from the plague houses,” he says regretfully, “We should move on.”

“It sounds like a child weeping.”

“Lestat…”

Lestat turns to him with an expression of determination that makes Louis’ heart sink, “If we can hear them, they can't be far.”

“Lestat! Lestat, _no-_!”

But it is too late. Lestat always has to be the hero of his own story. He is Achilles, he is Alexander; though it may lead to his doom, there has never been an ounce of hesitation in him. He pulls out his handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth, and then strides off in the direction of the wail. 

And Louis can do nothing but curse and stride after him.

For all Lestat’s enthusiasm, it is Louis who finds her first - after only a minute or so he glances through the smashed pane of a house to see a little creature with matted yellow hair in a torn dress, slumped next to a bed, her round red cheeks raw with tears. When he nudges the door open with his foot her head turns towards him and she makes a low whimpering noise, like a dog kicked too many times. Louis’ heart breaks. This was a mistake. Even if she has the plague, how can he leave her now, to die alone, this tiny skinny little thing, no more than five years old, gazing up at him with blue eyes full of hope?

“M’sieur,” she whispers pleadingly, “M'sieur, maman will not wake, and papa has not come back...”

For the first time, the smell registers through the handkerchief pressed tightly to his face. There's a woman lying on the bed. He doesn't need to examine her any closer to know that she's dead.

God, he cannot leave the girl here. His soul will not allow it.

Louis eyes her carefully; she doesn't have any obvious signs of the plague, none of the unusual marks on her skin, and besides being half-starved and in desperate need of a bath, she seems healthy enough. He hears Lestat come in behind him, hears his sharp intake of breath as he sees the girl, the corpse. The child looks up at him over Louis’ shoulder.

“M'sieur, my maman…”

Lestat sweeps past Louis and crouches in front of the girl, “Maman is with the angels now, mon oisillon,” he coos, “And we must fly you away before they find you, too.”

They take the girl - Claudia, she tells them tremulously, when Lestat asks - to the hospital, wrapped up like a little parcel in Louis’ frock coat, partially to hide her from the cold, but also because it's better to be safe than sorry. However, the doctor confirms that they needn't have worried; miraculously, Claudia shows no symptoms of the plague, and he officially pronounces her malnourished but well.

“The back bedroom would make for an excellent nursery,” Lestat muses as they stand at either side of her bed, watching her dozing fitfully.

Louis pinches the bridge of his nose, “Surely you cannot be serious? You wish to take her on as a ward?”

Lestat frowns, “Well, where else is she to go? She could do much worse for parents than we two.”

Louis looks down at the sleeping child. There is something appealing about the notion, he must admit. He sighs, then gives Lestat a pointed look, “She will need dresses, toys, a nursemaid, tutors… How do you know we have the time, and the means?”

“We will find them, I'm sure,” says Lestat, reaching down to stroke Claudia's golden hair off her forehead.

-

When she's washed and brushed and buttoned into a new silk dress, Claudia is a little vision of a child, and with her beautiful blond curls she bears more than a passing resemblance to Lestat.

“You're certain she's not yours?” Louis says, half in jest, as the girl trots along ahead of them to the carriage that will take them home from the dressmaker.

“Oh, mon coeur, there's no need to be jealous,” Lestat purrs, taking Louis’ chin in his hand and stealing a quick fierce kiss, “You know my bed in New Orleans has been sullied by no one but you.”

They're in the middle of the street in the middle of the day. Claudia is looking back at them over her shoulder, a curious expression on her little cherub face. Louis flushes, taking Lestat’s wrist and pulling his warm fingers from his face.

“I know you don't have any sense of propriety, but could you at least _pretend_ to?” Louis growls through gritted teeth. Lestat bursts out laughing, gives Louis a wink, then strides over to Claudia, sweeping her off her feet and spinning her around until she shrieks in delight.

-

Lestat gets his birds in the end, and they sing along as he teaches Claudia what he knows of the pianoforte. He buys her dolls with little intricate dresses just like hers, delighting in bringing them home as surprises to see Claudia gasp in wonder and run to embrace him. Louis teaches her numbers and letters, then when she is older they find her a tutor, but there are still days where she'll sneak away to curl up in Lestat's armchair and beg Louis to set his work aside to read her a story. 

Marie dotes on the girl too; heartbroken by the tragic tale of a sweet little orphan, she'll often stop by to sweep Claudia off to the dressmakers, or the fan shop, or to take tea on the veranda of some exquisite restaurant. 

“She needs a woman's touch,” Marie says pointedly one day as she helps Claudia on with her bonnet. With the death of their mother, she has taken over the duty of regularly needling Louis about getting married.

“And we are very glad to have your help with that,” says Louis, and once again, the subject is dropped for a few weeks.

-

“Will you please take a little more _care?_ ”

Lestat rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, “It was just a _kiss_ , Louis! She sees us kiss people almost every day, I don’t understand what is upsetting you about this.”

“She sees us kiss in greeting, on the cheek,” Louis folds his arms, glowering, “A completely different matter to this and you are well aware of that.”

“Alright, so it was a kiss,” Lestat throws his hands up, “But it was a chaste thing, nothing to be upset about! It wasn’t as if she caught you bending me over the chaise lounge!”

Louis’ eyes widen and he marches to the parlour door, shutting it quickly and pressing his back against it as if the addition of his body could somehow better shield Claudia from Lestat’s crassness. Louis gives Lestat a reproachful look and he laughs; as usual he has no care for propriety, and his blasé attitude towards flouting their… association in front of a child leaves Louis feeling sick. He hisses, “Don’t talk like that!”

“She can’t hear us, cheri, she’s fast asleep,” Lestat approaches and rests his hands on Louis’ shoulders, “What is this shyness, hmm?”

Louis shrugs off his hands, scowling, “It’s... not _right_. That she should know. We need to be more careful now she's with us.”

Lestat gives him a long look, staring into his eyes, and something there must upset him because abruptly he tenses and steps back. There's a kind of hollowed-out expression on his face for just a moment before anger arrives.

“It's that _sin_ business again, isn't it? _Isn't_ it?”

“ _I_ have read my Bible,” Louis says, and when Lestat's jaw clenches he thinks, _touché_ , a hit. A low blow, to be sure, but Lestat should know better, should _be_ better than this crassness, so Louis considers it fair, “I know what we are.”

“Say it,” Lestat snarls, “Go on, if you're so full of _conviction._ ”

Louis swallows, and feels the acid-burn of guilt flood over his insides, “Damned,” he says hoarsely, “We are damned creatures. Partners in sin.”

Although he had asked for them, the words seem to break apart Lestat’s facade. His anger immediately dissolves into something panicky and desperate. He breathes heavily and runs his hands through his thick gold hair, tugging it out of its ribbon.

“No! No we are not! Do _not_ say that!”

“Lestat-”

Lestat is pacing now, shaking, and keeps raking his fingers through his hair, “What you’re saying, it doesn't make sense. How can it not be good, to give and receive happiness? How?”

Louis thinks of Paul - sweet, wonderful, gentle Paul, with his blue eyes clouded over and mouth open in that final scream, fair hair tinting red as the pool of blood expands. He'd told himself at the time that the _no_ was to save his mother and sister from a life of destitution, from a love of money perhaps, but one that was founded on his position as head of the household and primarily of a duty of care. Now, thinking back, had not his last thought before the _no_ left his lips been of Lestat’s grey eyes, that wide infectious smile, the easy affection, and how reluctant he was to give them up? He could not have known it at the time, but even then he had desired the pleasures of Lestat’s company, and his body. And if those had been why Louis had told Paul _no_ , then Paul had surely died for Louis’ inability to forgo his most coveted of sins.

It's not the first time he's had the thought, but it hits him particularly hard this time. He moves jerkily to an armchair and slumps in it.

“Sin always feels good,” he whispers.

Lestat makes a strangled kind of noise. Louis wants to comfort him, but he feels weighted into the chair. He reaches out a hand and tries to pull at the elbow of Lestat’s shirt as he passes. He is ignored.

“I notice,” Lestat snaps, “That you said we need to be more _careful_ , not that we need to _stop_ ,” he whirls on Louis, “You are a hypocrite, then!”

“Yes,” Louis says wearily. 

“You know it to be a sin and yet you wish to continue?”

Louis puts his head in his hands, “Yes,” he whispers.

Lestat drops to his knees in front of Louis and lifts his head with a hand on each cheek. He’s begun to cry, and seeing the tears in his grey eyes makes Louis’ own well up.

“The whole time we’ve been together, you’ve been thinking this? That we are something terrible?” Lestat asks, voice breaking.

“Not all the time,” Louis bites his lip, but knows he must be honest, “Though I- I have, yes.”

“But we’ve been happy,” Lestat implores him, “Haven’t we? Haven’t we made each other happy?”

Louis chokes back a sob, “Yes! Mon dieu, why do you think I cannot bring myself to stop this? Why do you think I am such a hypocrite, such a coward? You and Claudia, here in our home - you make me so happy I can barely breathe.”

“Then how can it be evil!” Lestat dashes the tears from his cheeks, then takes Louis’ face in his hands again, “Louis, Louis, look at me, _listen_. You can't understand anything and you can't change anything, but you can find goodness in making people happy. You can find goodness in _love_. And- and that’s what we’re doing, isn’t it?”

“You really believe that?”

Lestat nods, “What other choice is there? Either you accept we are terrible damned creatures doomed to the pit, or you push back against that darkness and try and find what is good and beautiful in this life. I had to watch Nicki be consumed by all his darkness and self-hatred, and I can’t- I can’t-” Lestat sucks in a shaky breath, “I can’t do it again, Louis, please, _I can’t_.”

Louis considers that. Considers Lestat's earnest face. Takes a deep breath of his own to dispel the tightness in his chest. It doesn't really work.

But he can't stand to see Lestat cry.

“You've put a great deal of thought into this,” Louis says finally, offering a little smile - mostly because he knows it’s what Lestat needs to see. 

Lestat pinches him lightly on the thigh, “No need to sound so surprised!”

They laugh together for a moment, through their tears. It feels... good. Cathartic. Louis pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his cheeks, then carefully cleans up Lestat too. 

“I would like us to be more discreet around Claudia,” Louis says, running his thumb over Lestat’s jaw and imploring him to understand. His expression saddens, but he sighs and nods his acquiescence.

“Very well,” Lestat says, standing, “But in recompense I must be allowed to kiss you absolutely every moment she is otherwise occupied.”

“That is something that can be negotiated dependent on circumstance,” Louis fires back cooly as he stands up himself, hiding his smile at Lestat’s squawk of indignation by ducking his head to straighten his waistcoat.

Louis pushes the guilt down further. He knows it will resurface again, but for now Lestat is smiling and tenderly taking his hand, leading him to bed, and for now he has the bliss of his most coveted sin to distract him.

-

What Claudia loves most, and what she begs for many evenings before bedtime, is when Lestat performs something from his internal catalogue of plays. Louis is dragged out of his study and into the nonsense more often than not, as a line-prompter or someone for Lestat to bounce off - Banquo or Horatio or Benvolio, or anyone inconvenient enough to be someone Lestat doesn't want to play at that moment, and Claudia’s bedroom floor transforms into a stage.

“Papa,” Claudia mumbles sleepily as Lestat tucks her in after one such performance, “Will you take us to Paris one day?”

Louis, carefully collecting up Claudia’s dolls from where they have been strewn around the room as character stand-ins for the evening's abbreviated version of _The Tempest_ , looks up in time to see Lestat freeze for a moment.

And then he's smiling easily and patting her curls, “Of course, chérie, one day when you are grown I will sweep you and Papa Louis off on one of those big ships that comes to the harbour, and we will sail all the way to France, where I shall take you both to all of the grandest theatres in Paris.”

“I will wear my best blue dress, with the white sash,” Claudia says seriously. 

“And all the beautiful ladies will just die of jealousy. What should I wear, then?”

Claudia considers a moment, “Your red coat, with the white pearl lace.”

“An excellent choice,” Lestat nods, then turns towards Louis, “And what about Papa Louis, what shall we make him wear?”

Louis smiles, folding his arms as they both look him up and down thoughtfully.

“The green frock coat, and his hair in a- in a-” Claudia gives a big yawn, “In a ribbon,” she finishes, eyes drooping to a close.

-

Lestat comes back from the theatre one night utterly drunk. Louis first realises when he hears raucous singing from outside, and he comes to the back door to find Lestat on one knee in the courtyard serenading Claudia, who stands giggling on the balcony.

Louis is amused, despite himself - though less so when Lestat notices him and leaps up to give him a kiss that leaves something sticky smeared on his lips. Louis licks it. It tastes like iron. When Lestat smiles there's blood on his teeth, and it takes Louis a moment to realise that it's from his split bottom lip.

“Did you get in a _fight?_ ” Louis asks, frowning and reaching out his hands to check Lestat over, but Lestat bats them away, laughing.

“Only a small one. Mon dieu, Louis, will you stop fretting? You're not my _wife_.”

Something cold shoots through Louis like a gunshot.

“No,” he growls, turning back inside, “No, I'm not.”

They don't speak again properly for nearly a week, which Louis feels a little bad for but only because it upsets Claudia. 

And then one afternoon Lestat meanders into the parlour, where Louis is reading, and sits down at the pianoforte. Claudia is with her tutor and without her as a buffer the tension around them in the empty house feels like a physical weight. Lestat tinkers absently with the pianoforte keys, picking out the left hand part of something by Mozart, and just when Louis is considering pointedly leaving for his study, Lestat says casually, “I heard Madame du Bois has been harassing you again.”

Louis sighs. The only reason he replies is because Lestat has kept his tone very carefully neutral, but he keeps his eyes on his book, “She doesn't understand why I won't woo her daughter. She is… tenacious.”

Lestat is silent, pretending to ponder the matter, clearly trying to project nonchalance in this line of questioning and failing quite distinctly. Louis clenches his jaw and rereads the page of his book. After another moment, Lestat crosses the room and sits in the armchair opposite Louis. Louis knows without looking that he's slouched sideways, with one leg slung over the armrest. The lazily decadent way he always sits when he's at home. He realises that by this point he probably knows Lestat and his habits better than anyone else in the world; it makes his heart ache in a strange way.

“You know,” Lestat says leadingly, and Louis glances up. Lestat is staring out of the window, playing with his lace cuff, “There are men in this city who… live like we do, who wear a ring on their smallest right hand finger, to show that they're not interested in marriage.”

Louis says, “Oh?”

Lestat shrugs, but the colour coming to his cheeks belies his composure, “It might help keep Madame du Bois at bay. I had an old family ring recreated a few years ago to replace one my mother had to sell, but I don't wear it much, so… if you needed one…”

If Lestat had come into the conversation with a swaggering entitled air, or jealous and possessive, Louis would have shot the suggestion down straight away. But something about Lestat’s earnest awkwardness makes the gesture feel more sincere.

Louis sets his book down and holds out his hand palm up, “Let me see it, then.”

Lestat fishes the ring from his waistcoat pocket and passes it to him. Louis slips it on his finger. It fits perfectly; likely it was made specifically. Lestat always did prefer giving gifts to saying sorry.

“Does it fit?” Lestat asks, searching his face for confirmation that Louis understands. Louis says nothing, tugging off his own family signet ring and gesturing to Lestat to hold out his right hand. Louis sets the ring carefully on Lestat’s little finger.

Lestat examines it curiously, then looks up at Louis, eyebrows raised. Louis smiles, “Well, I wouldn't want Madame du Bois to move on to harassing _you_.”

Lestat smiles back, broad and toothy, and kisses him.

-

Claudia grows and grows like a weed. A bright and beautiful child becomes a fierce and intelligent young woman. She's accomplished in writing and music and languages, like any lady of the middle class ought to be, but she takes to drawing and painting particularly. Marie is married when Claudia is eleven and as a wedding present Claudia gifts her a beautiful little watercolour portrait of Louis and Marie together.

“She reminds me of my mother,” Lestat says at the reception. Claudia flounces around excitedly in a new green dress, long blonde curls ornately braided; she and dark-haired Marie are visual contrasts that only serve to make each other look more beautiful, and Louis is overflowing with happiness. Lestat, standing beside him, sipping champagne, is resplendent in a cobalt frock coat that brings out the blue in his grey eyes. He doesn't seem upset at the reminder of his mother. Only thoughtful.

Louis slips his hand into Lestat’s. 

Lestat glances at him with a little smile, “It's a pity they never met, I think they'd have gotten on well.”

-

As Louis rounds the corner onto Rue Royale, he hears the gentle sweetness of the pianoforte wafting from the open windows of the balcony, and smiles to himself. He’d had a successful day arguing down a particularly impolite young man who works for the bank, and he knows the theatre had their first readthrough of the new script today, so Lestat will be back already and in an excitable mood. If he’s lucky, it’ll quite possibly be the sort of mood that involves them ‘retiring to bed’ early. He heads up the stairs, already shrugging off his coat and hat to hand to the housekeeper. He pauses when he sees the expression on her face.

“Monsieur de Lioncourt, Isabella?”

“He seems to have had a trying day, sir.”

Isabella is a discreet, polite woman, and Louis knows this is her way of saying that Lestat has worked himself up into a foul mood. He tries not to think mournfully on his hopes for the evening as he offers her a reassuring smile and heads carefully into the parlour. 

It's Claudia playing the pianoforte, and as he walks in she shoots him a grimace over the sheetmusic before rolling her eyes. Claudia has never been afraid of Lestat's changeable moods, and Louis is glad for that, as she's a strong-willed, confident girl and it would be awful to see that smothered under the fear of a father. Music has always been one of the loves of Lestat's life, so it's frequently used as a strategy to distract him. Judging by his posture, it doesn't seem to be working today.

He's stood over by the fireplace, one hand clenched around the edge of the mantlepiece and the other fisted in his jacket pocket, staring stonily at his expression in the mirror. Louis sighs. Something must have gone wrong at the theatre.

“Bonsoir,” he says quietly, leaning over to kiss Claudia on the top of her head as he passes, then carefully approaching Lestat. Glancing over his shoulder to check Claudia is still engrossed in her music, Louis dips in and presses a kiss to the corner of Lestat's mouth. He'd hoped that would be enough to secure a smile, but Lestat doesn't react.

Oh dear. Louis sighs again. A different tack, then. He sits down on the sofa, picks up the evening paper, and sets about utterly ignoring Lestat.

That is, naturally, a much more effective approach. Lestat doesn't last two minutes. 

"We're doing Merchant of Venice."

Louis says nothing, focusing on the paper.

"I've been cast as Antonio."

Louis pauses in his reading, wracking his brain for why this could be a negative thing. Isn't Antonio the protagonist? Why would Lestat be-?

“They'll have to put a lot of makeup on you,” Claudia pipes up dutifully.

Oh. _Oh_.

Antonio is supposed to be an older man. Not old enough to make the casting a straight insult, but certainly enough to needle someone as vain as Lestat.

Louis has bite his lip to hide a smile, “That's certainly a prestigious role, congratulations.”

Louis can see Lestat’s jaw working, clearly torn between accepting the boost to his ego and milking the blow to his vanity. They're all delicately skirting around the elephant in the room; that is, that Lestat is now old enough that he's not the first choice to play the young hero role. That Lestat, despite how aggressively he's fighting it, is approaching fifty.

Not that it's obvious from his appearance - Lestat’s features have always had a bright and boyish kind of animation that belies his years, and his blond curls still grow thick and shiny to his shoulders - but the years of his life are starting to etch themselves into his face, with heavy lines around his mouth and eyes from so much laughter. During the colder months he has a certain difficulty in movement, he needs more sleep even during his frenetic high-energy periods, and whilst he crossly insists that he doesn't need glasses like _Louis_ does now, Louis has seen the way he has to squint and lean backwards when he's playing from sheetmusic. Each little piece of evidence is something Lestat holds a grudge against. He is taking ageing as a personal insult.

Such marks of the passage of time have never much fazed Louis. Lestat had once said, in one of his less kind moods, that Louis was born to be middle-aged, and now the sting of the words has faded he supposes there's a small kernel of truth in them. He likes his routine. He likes his big oak desk with its messy papers that the housekeeper always despairs of. He likes his armchair by the fire, just close enough to Lestat's that their feet touch on the hearth. He likes taking tea with Marie and his nephews once a fortnight. He likes the route they always take on their long walks through the city when he has Claudia’s hand in the crook of his elbow and she and Lestat are bickering over the opera. He likes the old reupholstered chaise in the bedroom that he never uses, and the sounds of the birds singing along with the pianoforte, and the smell of the jasmine thick in the air in summer, and the way Lestat's counterpane feels when it's clenched in his fists.

They are the sweet little details of his life, and if appreciating them makes him ‘middle-aged’, then so be it. Madame Girard had practically pushed her beautiful young daughter into his arms at the last ball they attended, which, whilst being awkward and unwanted, makes him fairly certain he's not quite over the hill _just_ yet.

Louis looks up from his paper to see Lestat, still conflicted, studying his own expression intently in the mirror. 

Claudia finishes her piece with a little flourish, then stands and stretches luxuriously, "I'm going to my room to read," she declares, "Papa Noir," she says, as she passes Louis and squeezes his shoulder, and then shoots Lestat an amused look over her shoulder as she leaves and calls, "Will we see you at dinner, Papa Jaune, or do you intend to stay there at the mantlepiece all night?"

Papa Jaune and Papa Noir were sweet nicknames Claudia gave them when she was very young, and Louis suspects she's using them to direct away from the sassiness of her comment. He turns in his seat to frown at her, but she's already away down the corridor, giggling. Lestat doesn't react.

Louis rolls his eyes and goes back to the paper. After a few minutes Lestat clears his throat. Louis doesn't look up.

"Am I past my prime?"

"As someone not so very much younger than you, I am going to choose not to take insult at that question," Louis mutters.

"Yes but you are a bourgeois bookkeeper, you only get riper with age. I am an _actor_."

Louis finally looks up from the paper and stares incredulously at him, "What on _earth_ is that supposed to mean?"

Lestat drops dramatically into his armchair, long legs outstretched and one hand over his face. Louis rolls his eyes again.

"Lestat," he says, going back to his paper, "You're going to age, whether you will it or no, so you may as well make your peace with the idea."

The concept of ageing must pull Lestat's mind down the somewhat more morbid rabbit hole of his own mortality, because after several minutes slumped morosely in the armchair, he climbs up, sidles over, settles himself on the sofa and rests his cheek against Louis' shoulder.

"We're only two months from my birthday, and I shall be forty four. _Quarante-quatre_. I shall be an old man, practically a corpse," Lestat sniffs mournfully, "Je t'aime, Louis," he mumbles, "You know that, don't you?"

Louis smiles a little, despite himself - 'practically a corpse' is ridiculous, even for Lestat - then sighs loudly as if he's relinquishing something very much against his will, "If I promise that you may throw one of your truly horrifying little soirees for your birthday, will you cease your moping about this?"

Louis suspects that the birthday is the real issue, and the casting is just the last straw; Lestat's mother Gabrielle died when she was fifty and something strangely superstitious has lodged in Lestat's mind that it's a fate he's doomed to meet himself. He's thrown himself into ridiculous melancholy about his birthdays ever since he passed forty.

But bribery is always the most effective course with Lestat. His sour mood vanishes almost immediately. 

The party they host in November is beyond decadent, so naturally Lestat is absolutely in his element, swanning about with champagne in his hand, promising every single guest personally that this will _definitely_ be a yearly tradition from now on. Louis watches and shakes his head and privately congratulates himself on a distraction well done.

-

“Papa!” Claudia cries as she storms into the drawing room one morning, “Papa, it's not fair!”

Louis sets down his paper as Claudia slumps onto the sofa beside him, “He said no?”

“He said no,” Claudia confirms, bottom lip jutting out as she folds her arms. Her heels knock against the sofa frame as she kicks her legs crossly; she's always been rather short for her age and her feet don't quite touch the ground. It's not a very ladylike habit. Louis clears his throat and she stops immediately, though her pout deepens into a scowl.

“I'm surprised,” Louis admits, “I thought he might be interested, especially if you suggested it.”

“I know! And he's promised to take us to Paris since I was a little girl! It's not _fair_.”

Louis raises an eyebrow, “You still _are_ a little girl, ma cocotte,” he says fondly, hoping to raise a smile.

Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect. Claudia rounds on him, blue eyes blazing.

“I am not - papa, I am almost sixteen! There are girls my age married! But you both talk to me like I'm still a child!” She curls her small hands into fists, “Sometimes I feel like you don't want me to grow up at all, that you two just want me to stay a… to stay a little doll! To dress up and parade around and stay with you here forever! But I won't! I can't!”

Louis blinks at her, genuinely stunned. Claudia is immediately embarrassed by her outburst and clamps her mouth shut, squeezing it into an angry line and turning to stare resolutely across the room. 

Louis doesn't know what to say. This is clearly something that has been brewing for a while, under the surface; usually when Claudia has one of her fits of temper they're vented at Lestat, who, with his own temper, tends to be the one who provokes them - but is also the best at weathering them. It's rare Louis has to face her anger directed at him.

“Claudia,” Louis says softly, resting his hand on her shoulder. She makes a low noise of frustration in the back of her throat, then sighs somewhat melodramatically, leaning sideways into him and letting him slip an arm around her shoulders. For now, his comfort seems to be enough.

“I just want to go to Paris,” she grumbles, cheek pressed against Louis’ chest, “I wish he'd just let us go.”

“I will speak to him,” Louis says, “Though you mustn't keep pushing on the subject, you know that will only rile him up.”

Louis passes the open parlour door later in the afternoon and hears the sound of pianoforte music drifting out, with its usual accompaniment of sweet birdsong. He glances in and sees two golden heads bent over the keys. The duet is going well until Lestat leans down and whispers something to Claudia, which makes her burst out laughing so uproariously that she almost falls off the stool.

Louis smiles and moves on.

-

“No doubt Claudia has mentioned Paris to you,” Lestat says, propping his head up on his hand as he turns to lie on his side, watching appreciatively as Louis undresses for bed.

Louis folds his waistcoat and thinks quickly, trying to judge the best approach for this, “I would like to go,” he says, quietly, sincerely.

Lestat is silent for a moment. Louis isn't sure if he's thinking or just distracted by Louis tugging his shirt off over his head.

“Perhaps a visit could be… agreeable,” Lestat says eventually, as Louis climbs into bed.

“I'm not suggesting we live there forever, but I would like to go. I haven't been back to France since I was a young boy,” Louis smiles, “And it would make Claudia very happy.”

Lestat's expression goes serious, “She would love Paris. It's full of beautiful people and exquisite sights - if she gets one look at the Seine at sunset she'll never want to return. We'll lose her there.”

Louis can see that he’s going into one of his melancholy phases, so he wraps an arm around him and tugs him in closer.

“She's almost grown, Lestat. We might lose her to a city, or to a lover, but we will lose her one day.”

Lestat lets out a long sigh and curls his face into Louis’ collarbone, “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Say my name like that. Like it's something precious to you.”

Louis laughs quietly, “Very easily, because _you_ are precious to me.”

Lestat huffs like that's ridiculous, but Louis can feel his lips moving up into a smile against his skin. They lie there in silence for a while, and as Louis begins to drift off, Lestat speaks in a whisper.

“Alright then. We'll go to Paris.”

Louis hums in vague acknowledgement; pleased, though trying to hold onto the doze he's drifting into.

“I think I should like to visit Nicki,” Lestat continues, even quieter, “He was buried in Paris, rather than back in Auvergne - one last _va te faire foutre_ to his father.”

Louis hums again.

Lestat’s voice is quiet enough that even so close, Louis can barely hear it, “I don't want to go back to Auvergne. Not even to visit.”

Louis sighs, “Go to sleep, Lestat,” he mumbles.

For once, Lestat does as he's told.

-

Louis holds tight to the railing of the ship's deck and stares out at the water. The rocking motion is turning his stomach and his glasses are speckled with drops of seawater but he's rooted to the spot, he just _has_ to know, something deep inside him compels him look out at the waves and sky and wait.

He'd made the crossing before when he was a small child. There's not much he remembers of it - just a jumble of sensations, the idea of feeling very sick, maman holding his hand very tightly on deck - but it's all underscored by blue, horizon-to-horizon blue, blue as far as the eye can see. It's so vivid and so wrapped up in his feelings about France that crossing this time Louis just has to know if it was an embellishment of his imagination or not.

They'd boarded the ship during the night and gone straight to their cabin. Lestat and Claudia had sat up playing cards as the ship left dock and Louis lay miserable in his bunk, trying to will away the queasiness, though he'd still been awake long after the other two had turned out the light. He'd given up on sleep sometime in the early morning and snuck out to stand on deck, hoping the bracing wind would help. A sailor had given him a sympathetic smile and suggested that staring out at the horizon often helped, which is fortuitous because that’s about all he’s capable of anyway.

Lestat finds him just as the first pink tendrils of dawn are creeping up the sky.

“Did you sleep?” he asks, wrapping his arms around Louis’ middle and resting his chin on his shoulder. There are no other passengers out so Louis doesn't mind the impropriety. Lestat’s breath is warm against his cheek. 

“Not significantly,” Louis admits. 

Lestat makes a sympathetic noise and presses a kiss to his jaw; neither of them have shaved yet so it's a little scratchy, but nice. They stay silent as they watch the sun slowly emerge from the clouds on the horizon, painting the world the colours of heaven - peachy pinks, pastel yellows, and rich swathes of magenta.

“ _I to the world am like a drop of water/ That in the ocean seeks another drop_.”

Louis turns his head, “Which one's that?”

“Comedy of Errors.”

“You've not performed that one.”

Lestat grins, teeth glinting in the dawn light, “I've not. But I have _read_ it.”

Louis, as pleased as any teacher may be with a pupil who exceeds expectations, grins back. He turns in the circle of Lestat’s arms and kisses him.

“You're going to miss the sunrise,” Lestat mumbles against his lips.

“Hmm,” Louis says distractedly, “There will be another one tomorrow.”

And when Louis finally turns back to look over the railing, the sea is blue.


End file.
